I was only 18. Too young to raise a child and too afraid to tell my parents – afraid they might be angry, hurt, disappointed – afraid they might tell me to keep it, and at the same time, afraid they might tell me to abort it. So I didn’t tell them. I just cried. I knew I had no choice but to get an abortion. I called the clinic and I got the money – somehow. There were a lot of us in the waiting room. It wasn’t memorable except no one was looking at each other and I couldn’t believe what we were all about to do. I stole a look here and there, imagining in my mind what their reasons might be – why we were all in this place together, and why everyone could appear as if this was no big deal – like we were just about to get an ugly mole removed.

I vaguely remember a nurse saying, “It’ll be over soon.” Some women feel relief at this point – their crisis over. I, however, was traumatized immediately.

I don’t remember the rest – getting dressed or the drive home. I just remember crawling into bed and crying loudly this time. I cradled my empty womb and begged for forgiveness. I wondered how I would go on.

The ugly mole I imagined in the waiting room was successfully removed and no one could see my terrible mistake, but the shame I tried to remove multiplied like a cancerous tumor into depression, grief, and self-destruction. I suffered 18 years before I sought help at A Hope Center …